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Friday, Oct 10, 2008
Damn! There he goes again, Victoria Passionately thought. Again, this she hadn't prepared for. She'd been planning this day for six months, running through all the possibilities of what she would say, what the president might say, what the security people would do, how the news would cover it, how she might get her name mentioned in In These Times or the TRUTHTELLER Web site, but never had she imagined that Inferior would give her this kind of attention. Coming up with an appropriate question for the president would require all of her mettle, all of her accumulated knowledge about domestic and world affairs. But just when she began despairing that she wouldn't be able to do it, that she was out of her depth, from deep within her began flowing a fountain -- or perhaps a geyser, given its suddenness -- of incisive and pointed inquiry.
"What would I like you to comment on? Everything, bub!" she blurped, in an effort to stall. The geyser hadn't quite reached her mouth yet. The president waited, still seemingly very interested in what Victoria Passionately wanted to say. But what did she want to say? Soon it came to her. Aha!
"Why are we, Mr. President," she said, her voice finally controlled, "at war now, when there are people starving on our streets, when crime rates are all going through the roof and everything? What are you doing about that? Our brothers and sisters are dying on the streets, fighting over food! And what about the NEA and the goddamned PMRC? How about those things? Censorship!"
Yes! She was impressed with herself. She hadn't faltered at all. Yes! She was going toe to toe, head to head, with the president! But had she been too cruel, too good? Had she delivered not just a knockout punch, but a kick to the head, a bullet to the chest? Had she come on too strong? How could anyone come back from a full-frontal attack like hers? Perhaps she would turn people against her, with how effectively and overwhelmingly she was bullying this poor feeble man.
However, the president, much too quickly, she thought, responded. He not only was still standing, but he also maintained the power of speech.
"Well, I'm happy to address your concerns," he said, "but I have to clear up a few things. First, I'm happy to say that I don't know of a certified case of someone dying of starvation in the United States in the last 29 years. The agencies who track that haven't recorded a case since 1975. That happened in Kentucky, and involved a man who had starved his grandfather as part of some Satanic ritual. Where did you hear about people starving in this country?"
Victoria Passionately couldn't remember where she'd heard this. She was sure it was on the Web, where she got most of her facts -- because the newspapers were just tools of the automobile industry -- but which Web site? It was a blog, she was certain, but...
"Are you sure they were talking about this country?" the president continued. "There's quite a bit of starvation in Sub-Saharan right now. Could it have been somewhere in Africa where people are starving on the streets?"
Victoria Passionately opened her mouth to speak but the president seemed to be speaking still. It was just as well, for she was waiting for something new and better to burst from her geyser. C'mon, goddamned idiot geyser!
"Secondly," Inferior said, "violent crime rates have been declining pretty darn precipitously for 20 years. Are you talking about violent crime?"
Was she? She wasn't sure. Violent crime sounded worse, so she nodded.
"Violent crime," the president said, "is actually down 35 percent over the last 20 years or so. Can I ask where you got those statistics, about crime going up everywhere and everyone dying?"
Victoria Passionately was writing in her Reporter's Notebook. She needed to think. Her face was burning. She could hear snickers from the press corps. This was not going according to plan. She had only one chance now to make the desired impact, to turn this election on its head, to throw a flaming torch of freedom and anarchy and many other desirable and dangerous things into this ... cauldron of hypocrisy.
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